


Tequila and Salt

by gagewhitney



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-30 17:50:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gagewhitney/pseuds/gagewhitney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Don't tell me you've never done body shots, Dixon."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tequila and Salt

**Author's Note:**

> For Porn Battle XIII with the prompt: bar.

They're doing a supply run in town when they notice it, the old-fashioned little bar stuck smack dab in the center of the town's quite literal Main Street.

"What do you think?" she asks, a little twinkle in her eyes.

He shrugs. "Let's check it out."

It looks more like a Wild West saloon than the bars either of them are used to (for Daryl, the redneck roadside variety, and Andrea, the nicely-dressed Miami kind) with high ceilings and an old chandelier and the long, worn bar situated off to one side.

After a quick walkthrough to be sure the establishment isn't hiding any undead bartenders, they head back to the main room. While he pokes around behind the bar, she slides onto a stool, watching him, drumming her fingers on the surface.

"Still got some booze back here. What's your poison?" He holds up a bottle. "Bourbon?"

She sticks out her tongue and pretends to gag. "Yuck."

He holds up another bottle. "Tequila?"

"Now you're talking."

He pours them each a shot, and they raise their glasses in a mini toast before downing them.

"Damn, that's good," she says, wincing slightly as the liquor burns its way to her stomach. "Too bad we don't have any limes."

"No, but…" He rummages around behind the bar some more and comes out with a shaker of salt. "We got this."

Andrea grins widely. "Nice. Come on, let's sit," she says with a nod to the area behind her.

They take a seat at a dusty old table, its wood cigarette-burned and scratched to hell from years of heavy use. She runs her fingers back and forth along one of the deeper gouges.

He pours out a couple of shots and hands her the shaker. "Ladies first."

She grins at him. "What a gentleman." She licks the space between her thumb and forefinger, sprinkles on some salt, licks it clean and tosses back her shot. "Ah," she sighs.

"Uh huh," he agrees, and follows her lead. "Another?"

"Do it," she says. 

He pours out the shots, and they repeat the process all over again.

"Too bad we don't have any quarters," she muses.

Daryl snorts. "Quarters, huh?"

"What?" she says, grinning. Her head is already starting to swim. "What's your game?"

"Don't do drinking games," he says with a shrug. "More fun to just do the drinking part."

"How about cards?" she pushes. "Poker?"

"Yeah," he says with a nod. "Sometimes."

"I wonder if there's a deck of cards around here somewhere," she says, glancing around. "We could play a few hands."

"You any good?" He pours out another couple of shots.

She laughs a little, her fingers playing along the scratches again. "Yeah. I'm all right."

"What's your game? Five card? Hold 'em?" 

"Strip," she says with a smirk, and giggles when he almost chokes on his shot.

"That so," he says, eyes narrowed. "You any good?"

"Find a deck of cards and I'll beat the pants off of you," she says flirtatiously. "Literally."

"Might be worth it."

She rolls her eyes and hides her grin by taking a drink. "Line 'em up," she says with a nod to their shot glasses.

"Yeah, yeah." He pours more tequila in their glasses. "Be a tease."

Before he can do anything to stop her, she leans in close and licks the skin at the base of his neck. He's warm and solid and smells like the woods, and he freezes up when she touches him, like he can't remember or doesn't know what it's like to have someone that close.

"What're you doing?" Daryl asks, voice low and husky. His breath is warm on her cheek.

She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "Don't tell me you've never done body shots, Dixon."

She sprinkles salt on the wet skin she'd left behind and raises her head to look him in the eyes. He's nervous, that much she can see, but his blue eyes are growing darker and there's something else in there, too, that she's never seen from him before.

Leaning in close again, she slowly licks the salt off his neck and slams back the shot, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. His eyes follow her movements the entire time.

He picks up the salt shaker and waggles it at her. "My turn, then."

Andrea leans back in her chair and quirks an eyebrow, challenging him.

He scrapes his chair on the floor until he can get closer, his legs pressing against hers. Gently, he moves the collar of her shirt out of the way, then leans in to lick a line along her collarbone.

"Ah," she sighs. She squeezes her eyes shut and resists the urge to grab the back of his hair to keep him where he is.

He shakes a healthy sprinkling of salt along the same spot and licks again, his tongue warm and rough against her skin. Reaching toward the table, he barely moves away from her when he tips the glass back against his teeth and downs the shot.

"Daryl," she breathes. She's already sick of the game.

He lines up another couple of shots and leans heavily against the edge of the table. "Your turn."

She eyes him and licks her lips. "Pass."

"Okay." He nods. "C'mere, then," he says, his voice gravelly. He puts his hands on her thighs and yanks until she slides forward in the chair, his knee pressing between her legs.

He pulls the tank top she's wearing down until her bra is visible, then licks along the valley between her breasts. She sucks in a breath when he sprinkles salt and blows cool air on her skin.

"You ready?" 

Andrea grits her teeth. "Do it."

He curls a hand around her ribcage, pressed up against her breast, and leans in closer. Slowly, he runs his tongue along the line of salt, licking her skin clean. He nips at her as he goes, and she bites back a groan.

The shot gets tossed back like it's an afterthought, and he reaches for her again, tugging her by the front of her shirt to slant his lips over hers. He tastes like salt and tequila and life and sex.

She moans from somewhere low in her throat and climbs onto his lap, straddling his hips as she kisses him. Beneath her, he's hot and hard and pressing against the inside of her thigh. He grips her waist and bucks up against her once, twice, and she breathes heavily against his neck. 

Her teeth scrape along the column of his throat, and he slides his hands from her waist to her backside before he grips the back of her thighs and stands. Kicking the chairs away, he lays her on the surface of the table and hitches her legs up around his waist, his hands running up and down her thighs.

Yanking him by the collar of his ripped flannel shirt, she circles her arms around his neck and kisses him hard. Her hands bunch in the back of his shirt, attempting to pull it up, desperate to touch his skin. Separating from her, he pulls it off and watches as her fingers quickly unbutton and remove her blouse.

Their undershirts are gone next, and so are the shot glasses, clinking as they roll onto the floor and scatter. Then she's tracing the scars on his chest with her fingers, looking with fascination at the collection of old and new, ugly and faded markings covering his skin.

"Don't," he says.

"Sorry."

In a sort of apology, she twists one hand behind her back and unhooks her bra, then pulls it off and tosses it wherever their shirts went. Daryl stares, and she pulls him down again, pressing their bare chests together.

"Touch me," she says, and nips at his earlobe.

With a groan, he lets his hands slide up to cup her breasts, thumbing her nipples. Undoing her jeans, he pulls them off and steps between her legs again. He thrusts against her, and the friction makes her gasp and hook her legs tighter around his back.

"Come on," she says.

He does it again and again, and he almost wants to make a crack about doing this in the back of a car a few times in high school, but then she's coming with a squeak and a gasp, gripping his shoulders, and he can't take it anymore.

He hooks his thumbs into her underwear and pulls them off, then undoes his belt and cargo pants without breaking his stride. She pushes them down with her feet as he stretches her arms over her head.

Loosely holding her wrists with one hand, he guides himself with the other until he's pressing inside her. She cries out when he fills her, and he covers his mouth with hers.

He starts to move, forgoing a slower pace because he just can't at this point, and she raises her hips up to meet his thrusts. He lets go of her wrists and then his hands are everywhere, skimming down her side and gripping her hips so tightly she knows there'll be marks there tomorrow before sliding up her stomach to grope at her breasts.

It's not long before he feels her muscles tighten around him. Andrea squeezes his biceps and whimpers his name, and he goes over the edge with her, his hips jerking against hers in violent, heavy spasms.

They stay there, breathing heavily, until she puts her hands on his chest. "Up."

Shakily, he pushes off of her and collapses into a chair. She sits up, rubbing her back, and reaches for the bottle, which sits precariously at the edge of the table. Their glasses are somewhere on the floor with their clothes, so she takes a swig, then hands it to him and watches as he does the same.

"Too bad we didn't have any cards," she says. "Who knows what could've happened."

Daryl snorts, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. "Fucking tease."


End file.
